Mesh by mesh, like an
enthralling net, all the different threads of convicting circumstances
were drawn about the accused man.
"Let us question him?" said Crane; and in his heart was not sorrow, nor
hate, nor compassion, nor anything but just joy. Greater than the
influence of money in his love ambition would be this degradation, this
reducing to a felon a man he felt stood between him and Allis Porter.
Yesterday they had won; to-day victory, almost, to him had come. Yes,
bring the deliverer in; he would feast his eyes, the narrow-lidded eyes,
upon the man whose young love might have conquered over all his
diplomacy, and who would go forth from his hands branded as a felon.
The probing of the already condemned man elicited nothing beyond a
repeated denial of theft. With the precision of Mam'selle Guillotine,
Cashier Lane lopped off everything that could possibly stand in
Mortimer's defense, grafting into the cleaved places individual facts
which confirmed his guilt. Mortimer contended nothing, threw suspicion
upon no one. Was it Alan Porter? Was it Cass?--but that was
impossible. Was it the cashier himself? Still more impossible.
Mortimer answered nothing. He had not taken the money.
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